


William Blore Is Not A Queer

by CelticArche



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Homophobic Language, I'm Going to Hell, Internalized Homophobia, Masterbation, Other, if it exsits, imaginary lover, my beta will save me a seat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6454753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticArche/pseuds/CelticArche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. And no matter what Blore claims, I think the man doth protest too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	William Blore Is Not A Queer

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for Blore calling Lombard a queer and thinking how he, himself, most assuredly is NOT a queer. (Though he kinda is leaning, at least, toward the bisexual area. Or he's so far in the closet he's found Narnia.)
> 
> Also warning for a couple bad thoughts about Irish in general.
> 
> And I tried to make the language authentic, but I might have not succeeded, so if it's not right, I declare it right via the magic of Handwavium.

He slides the bolt home, and turns the key. A sturdy chair goes just under the door knob to prevent any entry, should the bolt and lock not be enough. Blore is still wound up from the cocaine that Marston had left behind. And relaxed from the massive amounts of alcohol he had ingested both with and after the pitiful dinner of tinned goods.

He picks up his candle, slowly burning in a saucer, and moves to his bed. He was one of four left on this island, and he should be in fear that he would not live to get off the island. (This was seeming increasingly likely, now that the ten had become four.) Instead, he had very little caring at the moment about any potential death. (And anyway, Lombard would go first, he’s certain. The queer paddy should go first. Blore himself is a fine, upstanding former DI.)

He pulls back the sheets of the bed, beginning to strip down. He can still smell Armstrong’s aftershave on the collar of his shirt. He tosses the items carelessly on the bed, sitting down to finish disrobing. One set of pyjamas ruined, covered in Roger’s blood. Still feeling overwarm, he decides to hell with propriety and lays back on the bed, starkers.

His face is slick with sweat, cooling slowly in the air blowing in from the balcony. Armstrong’s aftershave drifts from the fabric of his shirt collar. He’s half hard by the time he takes himself in hand. When he turns his head into his shirt, it’s just to keep himself silent, and not at all to inhale the scent that lingers while he works himself. (He’s no queer. None at all.)

He starts out slowly, gradually rising to full hardness. Sweat, both his own and Armstrong’s, mingle with the scent of aftershave. Blore takes a deep breath through his nose on the down stroke, moaning quietly into the fabric that is blocking his noise from anyone who might be trying to listen.

He takes his time, letting the feeling of his hand on himself both tease and arouse. This is a perfectly normal thing, men do it all the time. Just because he doesn’t have a particular girl in mind (Armstrong) doesn’t mean anything. Not one thing. (He’s not a queer.)

He tightens his grip on the way up, his free hand sliding down as he thinks of indistinct warm bodies, the weight of muscle against his chest, and shoulders. (Soft shoulders that curve down properly, not broad shoulders. Not relishing the memory of Armstrong, standing in a towel while his room and belongings are searched.)

His eyes flutter as he fondles himself, hips rising involuntarily off the bed with a twist of his hand on the way down, and adding a slight squeeze. He inhales sharply, again, and the scent of Armstrong fills his nose. He twists his hand again, pulling back the foreskin to run a thumb over the sensitive head.

He can almost feel the weight of another body on the bed with him, pressing close. Different hands on him, stroking him, fondling him, and speaking in low tones in his ear. He moans into the fabric, hips rising from the bed in response. Skilled hands knowingly probing intimate places, giving pleasure. Blore gasps loudly into the shirt fabric, inhaling the clinging traces of aftershave and sweat, so close he can almost taste the skin under his tongue.

His hands move faster, as he feels the weight of another’s on his skin. His back arches slightly in response as he squeezes his cock. The fingers of his other hand press against sensitive skin between his legs. His heart pounds in his chest like a dog running at the races.

He moans into his shirt, his right hand moving up and down his cock faster and faster. He can feel the energy zipping along his skin as a voice, all in his imagination, such as it is, whispers dirty words in the shell of his ear.

He presses his face deep into his shirt, muffling his sudden shout as he comes, sticky fluid landing on his chest and stomach. He relaxes on the bed, taking deep breaths as the breeze cools his skin. The phantom person in his bed gradually disappears from his imagination.

William Blore is not a queer. And he absolutely does not fall asleep to the scent of Dr. Armstrong’s aftershave.


End file.
